


Three Ways Jason Street's John Hancock Got on the Wall

by Devilc



Category: Friday Night Lights
Genre: Gen, Laundrylist, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-11
Updated: 2010-01-11
Packaged: 2017-10-06 04:44:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/49784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Devilc/pseuds/Devilc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fall, Spring, Fall</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three Ways Jason Street's John Hancock Got on the Wall

**Author's Note:**

> Assumes you've seen 2x14. Written for FNL_Laundrylist #25 prompt 10  _The events surrounding the sharpie scribbled J. Street being placed under the P in the locker room. Does Jason know it's there? When did it happen?_
> 
> Also, I struggled with the order of the vignettes in this story, whether I should arrange them short to long or chronologically. I went with the latter and hope it works.

**Homecoming 2006**

Riggs isn't usually a guy for words, but after that speech he gave when Coach gave him the Homecoming game ball? Yeah, Bradley agrees. We _do_ get our heart from Jason Street.

And he'll be damned if anybody's going to forget that.

A quick glance over his shoulder confirms that none of the coaches are around. In fact he's the only guy here at the moment. (Leaving your wallet behind and not realizing it until 45 minutes later when you try to pay for a double burger will bring you back after hours.)

The deed done, he caps the Sharpie and hustles out of the room.

~oo(0)oo~

**Spring 2007**

They'll be picking a new head coach soon. Jason somehow doesn't think it will be Mac McGill as he sits in the locker room and rubs idly at a randomly twitching muscle in his left thigh.

"Six." Tim's voice startles him.

"What are you doing here?" He asks. He didn't even hear Tim come into the room.

Tim shrugs. "Just putting some gear in my locker. You?"

"Just waiting ... I guess."

Tim hmmns and slings a bag into his locker before sauntering back. He looks almost expectantly at Jason.

"It's strange," Jason finally says. "Four years. All those games. And ... there's nothing to show that I've ever been in this room." He gestures at the row of lockers.

Tim frowns thoughtfully. "You've got an office now, though."

They turn to go and Jason can't help but glance up at the P by the doorway. His arm twitches  muscle memory of slapping the P for luck every time he took the field. They both stop.

He and Tim look at each other for a long moment  there's a lot of memories there  and Jason can see the exact moment an idea enters Tim's head (his eyes glow almost as brightly as the lights on the field) and Jason feels apprehensive because Tim has only two kinds of big ideas: brilliant, and stupid beyond words. With nothing in-between.

A split second later Tim smiles. Big. Jason can see his dimples.

Without a word, Tim spins on his heel and comes back a moment later with a Sharpie that one of the coaches left lying out and hands it over. His eyes flick up to the P. "You should leave your mark, man."

Jason throws his head back and howls with laughter. Somehow Tim's come up with a new, third kind of big idea  brilliant and stupid all at the same time.

But sure enough, he hears himself say, "Yeah, let's go for it" and Tim hefts him up and they both chortle as Jason writes "J Street" underneath the P.

Jason arranges himself in the chair as Tim stands, hands on hips, studying Jason's handiwork. He glances over at Jason and opens his mouth to say something, but Jason cuts him off. "No, Riggs, your handwriting is _still_ worse than mine."

Snorting with laughter, Tim cuffs him on the back of the head, and together they head out the door. Tim's just gotten Jason's chair settled in the back of the truck when Jason says, "I wonder how long before it gets scrubbed off." He goes to put the key in the ignition but a hand on his shoulder stays him.

Tim looks at him, eyes huge and filled with an emotion that Jason won't let himself name.

"They wouldn't dare, Jay," Tim whispers, stricken. "They wouldn't dare."

~oo(0)oo~

**Fall 2007**

The benches in the locker room are incredibly hard and parts of his body that Tim didn't even know he had are going numb. They pins and needles like mad whenever he shifts a bit. Like right now, when he rolls so that the wood of the bench is no longer making seam up the side of his jeans dig into his hipbone.

Tim studies the softly buzzing lights overhead. Coach probably won't get here for another 20 or so minutes and Tim's eyes rove aimlessly over everything in the room for the millionth time. He feels like he's getting to know the chips in the paint on the locker across the way almost like the way he knows the pattern of cracks and stains on the floor next to the toilet at home Billy's house.

He blows out a deep breath and his eyes make the circuit around the room yet again, only this time, the P on the doorway that leads towards the field catches his eye. For some reason it reminds Tim of how he ended up on Coach's shitlist.

Jason.

Mexico.

_Jason_.

Who is still where Tim (and the rest of the team) get their heart from every time they step on the field.

Tim sits up, snags the Sharpie that's sitting by the roll of masking tape in the corner, and gimps his way (his fucking _ass_ fell asleep somehow) to the P and  _there_  it's done.

He caps the pen, puts it back, and clunks back down on the bench, twiddling his thumbs.

If Coach Taylor yells at him? Then Coach Taylor yells at him.

But Tim would do it (and Mexico) all over again in a heartbeat.


End file.
